


Clayman

by CravenWyvern



Series: DS Extras [34]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: Idfk at this point, Multi, Smoking, headcanons galore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-15
Updated: 2019-02-15
Packaged: 2019-10-29 00:24:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17797550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CravenWyvern/pseuds/CravenWyvern





	Clayman

“-and that's why you don't go out to the swamp at dusk. What the hell were you even thinking?”

There was a brief hiss as Wilson tried to finish up bandaging the other man's injury, but his hands remained firm and stable and, even with all the blood, it wasn't all that _bad_ really. It looked utterly horrific and almost gave him a damn near heart attack when he first saw, but that's what a brief encounter with a tentacle will do to you.

Leave what looked like a gaping wound but was mostly surface instead. A bit more to the right, maybe, and then there would have been problems, but Wilson was pretty sure an evisceration would have incapacitated the man and no one would have found him until next evening or so.

There wasn't any reason for stitching, nor enough to actually do, so instead he had spent the last fifteen minutes arguing and struggling to get Maxwell to cooperate and just let him at the very least _look_ at the damage, and then it took more time for him to be able to get the honey poultice on and bandaged up. 

Having Wes around, rushing about getting hot water and fresh silk and fabric cloth did help though. He would have to make sure to thank him later.

“Hey, I asked you a question you know, why were you-”

“It's none of your damn business, Higgsbury!” Hissed and squawked at, of course, and Wilson frowned as the other man huffed, trying very hard to not entertain the idea of tightening those bandages a bit more. A tentacles attack bloody hurt, he knew that, so a foul temper afterwards wasn't all too unexpected.

But it's not like he had to _like_ the attitude or anything.

“If I'm the one fixing you up, of course it's my fucking business.” He could see the older man already gearing up to chastise him on the crude word, and continued to steamroll over him with as harsh and disapproving a voice that he could muster. “Now, do you even _think_ that was worth it? A bag full of reeds, whoopty do, what's next, some nitre in the middle of an active meteor field? Do I really have to take care of you that much?”

That got Maxwell sputtering, straightening up and face darkening as his hands curled into fists, but that must have pulled something because his already pale face got even paler and he slumped back, hissing in a shaky breath and almost making Wilson feel bad. What was it that Wickerbottom used to always tell him?

Oh right, ‘don't get the patients all worked up’. Usually he was pretty good at not doing that, but not in this case, and not usually with this patient anyway.

There was a noise behind him, the movement of air and silence and the quiet shifting of the tents door, and Wilson barely turned his head to glance over at Wes as he entered the tent.

With more bandages, thank god, because Maxwell was already bleeding through. As if he didn't have enough of the old man's blood on his claws by now.

“Thank you, Wes, that should be all that I need at this point.”

The man handed over the bundle of things, a thin, small smile crossing his face, though it did seem to wilt when he looked over to Maxwell and saw him wincing and ignoring the both of them. His hands danced, signed as he gave Wilson a questioning look, and Wilson took the time to listen for a moment before untangling the bundle with a nod.

“He's fine, being a big baby is all-”

“Why if I wasn't-”

“-and the bleeding will stop soon. Like I said earlier, it isn't as bad as it looks. I would say we should be grateful we found him in one piece in the first place, but…” Wilson gave the older man a pointed look, effectively shutting him up for a moment.

Wes waved his hands, flailing to catch Wilsons attention before flowing back into words and meanings.

“I guess it would be harder to stitch him up if he was in two pieces, so at least there's that.” Wes didn't seem to find that funny, so Wilson shrugged and turned back to fixing up and making the bandaging more permanently set up. 

“...I find it hard to believe that you would even try.” Maxwell didn't fight him this time, but he didn't seem inclined in helping in any way, crossing his arms and glowering at the empty side of the tent as Wilson fussed and removed the bloody bandaging. 

“Don't be stupid; I have amulets for that sort of thing, and a heart or two just incase.”

Wes interrupted by clapping his hands, signing quickly.

“Right, and the effigies. Sewing up two halves of a person would be a waste of my time.” Wilson paused, pulled his claws away to give Maxwell a look. “Do you know how hard that sort of thing is? And the amount of energy as well, getting all the pieces in right-”

“Don't remind me.” 

The snarl was a bit darker, this time, and Wilson layed off immediately, turning his attention back to finishing up the wrapping. Pain made people cranky, irritable, and, as he knew perfectly well, helped bring up bad memories. 

Wickerbottom would've kicked him out of the tent by now, thought she already knew he was atrocious when it came to bedside manner. Probably why she preferred Wes and Wolfgang handling injuries instead of just asking him.

“Alright, that should do for now. Pretty sure we'll have to change them soon, have to watch for any sign of infection, those tentacles are filthy, but, it'll work for now.”

Maxwell rolled his eyes, still looked pale and shaky, but not like how he looked when Wes and Wilson had found him. Being cleaned of swamp mud helped his image drastically, apparently.

“Wonderful work, _Doctor_ Higgsbury. I can leave your bloody tent now, yes?”

“A thank you would be appreciated, but fine. I recommend wearing something different for a bit, at least until these are cleaned.” Wilson pointedly looked over at the pile of dirty suit and vest and shirt and all the rest of the upper clothing Maxwell wore, still stinking of swamp mud, but it smelled more like blood and honey in his tent at the moment. “Or perhaps burned. They'll have stains now, and you'll stink.”

The sight of his claws reminded him, and with that Wilson got up to find a cloth towel; having blood on his hands right now was just plain unsanitary!

“I'll decide what to do with them, thank you very much.” Maxwell carefully got up from the makeshift stool of sorts that Wilson had in his tent, sort of sideways and roughly made but still able to do its job, and Wilson subtly eyed him to make sure he didn't end up collapsing and opening anything up.

Wes offered an arm, standing straight and giving what was probably a sympathetic smile, and the old man seemed about to dismiss the gesture before rethinking and taking the help, which at least was better than Wilson having to do anything more.

Today has been eventful enough without a misadventure in the swamps, as if he wanted more on his plate in the first place.

“Don't wear them in camp is all I ask, at least until they're cleaned completely and utterly. I don't need a constant reminder that swamps even exist.”

He could hear Maxwell mutter under his breath, behind tightly clenched teeth, and he could make half a guess at it but just wasn't willing to even try.

“Oh, what was that? I didn't quite hear you, you know, being as tired as I am from having to fix you up and keep you from bleeding out-”

“I said,” and here Maxwell huffed, and standing seemed to be taking a bit out of him because it came off more as a wheeze, though Wes was the one that had gathered the clothing in one hand and held the old man up with the other. “ _fine_.”

“Good.” Wilson paused, hesitated half a moment in thought, before taking a few steps forward to carefully scrutinize his handiwork a final time.

He could tell Maxwell wanted him to back off, especially since he was leaning pretty heavily on Wes and that snarly scowl on his face had set in, but he was still acting as doctor right now.

And he didn't fancy himself a terrible one.

“Be careful next time, alright?” He raised a hand, fiddled with one of the tying edges of silk bandaging to make sure all was well, and hesitated before laying his palm over where the old man's heart was, looked up at him in all seriousness. “May be hard to believe, but I _really don't_ like seeing your blood on my hands.”

Not anymore, anyway, but now didn't seem like the time to mention that.

Wes was definitely keeping Maxwell up at this point, and he could see the flicker on the older mans face before it closed off again, so that was enough.

Pulling away, he waved at the both of them, an almost shooing motion.

“Wes, make sure he doesn't fall over at some point, I don't need to waste anymore bandaging. Once I'm done cleaning up I can make a dinner of sorts, since you are a guest and all.”

The gangly man couldn't sign fully with one hand occupied with keeping Maxwell up, but he was fairly good at it either way and got his meaning across.

“If you really want to. The ice box doesn't have much besides monster meat and berries though, maybe a few carrots, so I was planning to get creative tonight.”

Wes assured him he'd get something done, at the very least, and that small smile had crept back up his painted face, looking relaxed and not as if someone just a smidgen shorter than him was practically collapsed against him. Maxwell, for his part, was ignoring the both of them and had that look that probably meant he was sulking, which meant the attitude wasn't going to lighten up any time soon.

The paleness bothered Wilson a bit, but unless it persisted for too long then the older man should be well enough. Having his palm against Maxwells chest let him feel his heartbeat, his pulse, and it was steady enough for now.

With that Wes shuffled out, led Maxwell away, and Wilson stared at the closed tent door for a moment before shaking himself, turning about to find any dirtied cloth and clean up the rest of the blood that had gone unchecked.

It was awfully hard, sometimes, to remind himself that Maxwell was actually warm, or that he even had a human body under all that clothing, that could bleed and cut and scar, had human skin, of all things. Funny, how that could escape his mind sometimes.

Curling and uncurling his dulled down claws, for a brief moment, before Wilson forcefully shook the thoughts away and got back to cleaning.

Now wasn't the time, especially after playing doctor. He wasn't terrible at it, really, but Wilson was at the very least honest with himself.

He was hardly qualified to do a damn thing.

***

The meatballs in his stomach were not too bad, really, especially since all the meat he had on hand had been hound fat, but Wilson had to admit that Wes knew what he was doing around a crockpot.

And, with a quick check in at the ice box, he was assured that not everything in there was used up. Enough berries for some sort of jam tomorrow morning, at least.

Maxwell had retired early, which was perfectly understandable, honey poultice just helped curb infection, not pain, but then Wes had gathered up the bag he had brought with him this morning and invited himself into the older mans tent.

And left Wilson out here to attend to the fire himself, which he found a bit inconsiderate. Especially with everything he had done today, too. Medical aid may not escape him as easily as other talents at times, but as if it was easy or stress free!

His claws may be cleaned of blood at the moment, but as if they weren't stained enough. He needed a distraction, to not think about it, and any attempt at conversation or even silent companionship was apparently dashed in favor for the two of them to scuttle away and pretend that he didn't know what they were up to.

Wes had a bag full of mandrakes and dark flowers, preserved, and it had probably taken months to get them to age right and not break down too early. Wilson did not see himself as nosy, but when the other man's back had been turned this morning he had made a quick attempt at poking around the bag and making sure that the visit was in good nature and not stuffed with a hardened tentacle spike and armor.

It wasn't exactly nice, to have to be so paranoid, but Wilson was honest enough to understand; as if he didn't ever get the hankering for an axe in hand and a smashed skull on the ground.

But that was usually after a bad few days of nightmares and terrors, which were becoming less and less now that he thought about it. It was actually nice, for once, to not feel so murderous. 

He was fairly certain that such feelings were bad for his mental health.

But the fact that he wasn't even _invited_ sort of pissed him off. 

Tossing a few more logs into the fire, knowing it would be dark very, very soon, Wilson stood up, stretched, and scowled his way over to the only currently occupied tent in his small camp. They both should know by now he wasn't the sort of man to just let them be.

Opening up the tent without asking was a bit rude on his part, but the puff of bitter and foul smoke was enough to cut off any words he had and Wilson instead just coughed his way in, trying to wave away the air in front of his face.

Wes tipped his hand at him, a half wave from where he had sprawled himself out on the floor, and he did at the very least give Wilson a half smile. And then returned to what he was working on, nimble hands working with a mandrake and carefully peeling it apart.

It was wrong to say that Wilson wasn't jealous, but working, flexible fingers were always going to give him that. He's been working on it, trying to understand the why and how, so he was sure eventually he'd get these damn talons back to the way they were supposed to be, but for now he kept his envy to himself. As if it was Wes’s fault he woke up one day with claws instead of fingers.

As for the old man, seated at a barely holding together desk, and ignoring him stubbornly, well…

Wilson didn't have an answer for that just yet. Might take awhile to bring it up, and certainly not right now either.

He tried to take another, deeper breath, but it just made him cough again, which made Wes heave a silent sigh and give him a sympathetic smile. The smoke around the lanky man was more white, foggy and like dust, and even as he worked what Wilson could only guess to be a cigar was in between his lips, hands pulling from his work to take it away and blow foggy air out in plumes.

Wilson scrunched up his nose, squinting a disgusted look at him, because mandrake _really_ was an acquired taste and he _really_ didn't like it all that much. Light it on fire and sure, you'll be down and out for hours after inhaling the smoke, perhaps just smoothed out if one had enough willpower to not fall asleep, but the nasty sour sweet taste on his tongue will not be going away any time soon.

“Do you two really have to do this in a tent? Wouldn't the open air be more-” Wilson had to stop, choking out another cough and fight a vague gag reflex because the mandrake was too damn strong in the air. Once he cleared himself, at least a bit, his throat stinging and the taste just disgusting, he shook his head, meeting Wes's still almost demeaningly sympathetic look with a rougher, scowling one. “I can hardly breath, for god's sake!”

“Then I'm sure you know the way out, Higgsbury. It is not as if anyone invited you.” Maxwell didn't even spare him a glance, and Wilson squinted at him for a moment.

The old man sounded grumpy as hell.

“I don't like being left out of the happenings of my own camp.” He made his way over, Wes putting his hand on his cheek and watching them both with an interest that made Wilson roll his eyes.

The smoke about the older man was subtly different from mandrake, made Wilson have to take a shallow, calming breath because of the familiarity of it, hesitant for a moment before stubbornly getting to the man's side.

It was darker as well, bitter, not as sweet and more spiced, and if it had been any stronger his eyes would be watering. That was one of the few things he could be grateful for when it came to dark flowers; it wasn't tobacco, so it lacked some of the properties he especially disliked and kept the ones he was more lax with. 

Still, the nightmare fuel producing flora was really not supposed to end up in the human body in any way, especially as smoke. Maxwell seemed to not care about that sort of thing, unsurprisingly enough.

The man hadn't dressed himself up too much yet, which Wilson can blame the bandaging for, it was hard to get comfortable clothing when injured and sticky with poultice, but he had managed to get a hold of a different suit jacket. And at least changed from the swamp smelling trousers.

All Wilson could smell was that bitter spicy tang, so he wasn't one to know anyway.

At his side now, Wilson leaned a bit to watch the older man sort through the leaves and petals, a small razor on the table that he used to cut them up in patterns that Wilson saw no reason for, but didn't remark upon.

He had very little interest in cigars in the first place, and none at all in the art of making them. But, he would admit that it was interesting to watch.

About as interesting as watching Wickerbottom bind a new book or Webber sew up an old stuffed toy, but oddly investing because of who he hovered next to instead.

“Those are terrible for your health, Max.”

The man's answer wasn't quite distracted, just a hint of frustration, and the older man sighed heavily, setting down the razor he had in hand to pull away the lit cigar hanging from his lips, dark smoke curling from him in clouds.

“Did I ask for your opinion?”

Wilson was finding it easier breathing in dark flower smoke over mandrake, so he took a moment to breath deep, wishing that ghastly sweet taste on his tongue would go away. If he had a weaker stomach it would have made the fact he had recently eaten a nauseating experience, but it really wasn't too bad right now.

“Nope, gave it anyway though.”

Maxwell hummed at him for that, eyes still on the plants as he organized what he was splitting into piles of damp flora, taking one to roll and mold in his hands while still seeming to ignore Wilsons presence.

“...is it still bothering you? The pain, I mean.” 

He didn't get much of an answer from that, and glanced over at Wes to see him nod slowly, having finished up stripping the mandrakes down by now and looking rather boredly at the both of them. Then the man gave him a small smile, a wave of the hand with the mandrake cigar between his fingers, and Wilson let out a sigh, shaking his head.

“Honestly, are you only here because Wickerbottom forbids you from making them in your own tent?” Wilson didn't wait for an answer, turning back to Maxwell and firmly attempted to get a good look at the bandaging on his side.

Thankfully the old man didn't seem up to hissing and fighting back about it, and instead just shifted about, still stubbornly focusing on the plants he had on hand. Having to make Maxwell face him made sure the older man could only work with one hand, his other ending up on his knee, but seated back on the stool as he was at least let Wilson feel over his earlier handiwork.

“I appreciate the effort, Wes, don't listen to Higgsbury.” That made Wilson huff, but Maxwell finally halted his fiddling and instead leaned back, puffing on his cigar instead. “No one else around here has talent as it is.”

“You and I have some very different opinions on what is talent and what isn't.” Wilson checked that the bandaging wasn't too tight, or loose for that matter, and he wasn't too afraid of it having been messed with in the time between dinner and coming into the tent but he had to make sure. If the old man got it into his head that he could use this as an excuse to get out of chores, then Wilson would have to make sure his work didn't get sabotaged.

It wouldn't be the first time Maxwell got something infected because he seemed to think he knew what he was doing better than anyone else, and Wilson wanted to prevent the drama of that at the very least.

After a moment, taking another breath and ignoring the fact that Maxwells smoke was taking up much of his breathing space, Wilson raised a hand up and laid his palm over the man's heart once more.

It was more for comforts sake than anything else. He wasn't taking the role of doctor here. 

He felt when the old man shivered, stilled a moment before taking a deep breath, thin chest rising and falling before him, and it was satisfactory enough to know that the bandaging wasn't restricting any of that. As if what Maxwell usually wore wasn't restricting enough as it was!

Maxwell wouldn't meet his eyes, but when Wilson did finally pull back, giving a short cough in his hand for politeness sake, he was a bit surprised at the offered cigar held out to him.

“The mime has been surprisingly vigilant for this batch; none have wilted into rot this time.” The older man's voice was a bit strained, and when Wilson looked up he could see he was tired and obviously not without the pain of a slash wound, but he didn't sound as grumpily irritable as he had been.

Wilson debated for a moment, honestly he didn't even like smoking, but in the end he took it because he was a gentleman and as if he'd say no to something a bit distracting, at the end of a long, troublesome day.

It didn't taste particularly good, Wilson thought after a moment, but it certainly was numbing his lips and buzzing that static, oily feel that the fuel usually gave off. Taking the breath, the familiar, almost eye watering taste held in his mouth before letting it out, and it was easier to fight off the urge to cough when it came to dark flowers, that was for sure.

He was sure as hell glad tobacco didn't exist around here; too many bad reminders to not want to remember. 

Maxwell was raising a brow at him, giving him a badly hidden curious look, so Wilson decided to throw him a bone.

“It's spicier, this time.” He could see Maxwell wanted it back, and instead took another drag, swirling the taste for a moment before decided no, he wasn't all too fond, and handing it back over, smoke blown from his lips and seeping a taste to his tongue. “Not as mild.”

“The plants were taken care of properly, so they are more potent.”

“I think I prefer it mild. The effects don't last so long then.” The buzzing static taste, the numbness of his lips, seemed stronger this time as well, and Wilson idly poked his mouth with one of his dulled claws before licking his lips, and then regretting doing so because now the tip of his tongue was all tingly.

Maxwell ‘hmph’ed at him, and Wilson took a step back to let him return to molding the rest of his supplies.

“It would take more time, and effort, to start feeling anything. Don't get your hopes up Higgsbury.”

“Oh, I'm not.” Wilson did eye the fact that the cigar itself, Maxwell back to puffing on it, was at it's almost half way point. 

Perhaps he should bug Wickerbottom for something that helped with pain, next time he saw her. There really wasn't much out here that helped numb it all out, and what did he hardly could recommend. Perhaps the old woman would know more about herbal remedies and such and could give him a few pointers.

“...How did you even light anything anyway, I didn't see either of you take a light from the fire-”

Maxwell gestured slowly over to Wes, and the sharp clicks and clacks that met his ears was enough of an answer.

“...She’s gonna kill you if she finds out.”

Wes shrugged, looking unperturbed as Willow's lighter hung from his fingers, and the man flicked it on and off again for a moment before putting it aside. For all the way he seemed to have loosened up, Wes did set it down with a delicateness that hinted how much he knew Willow would react if she did find out what they did with her things. She'd probably be way angerier at not being invited, though Wilson was fairly certain she'd not want to have anything to do with Maxwell from the get go.

The lanky man slowly stood up, stretched, fingertips brushing the top of the shallow tent, and ambled his way over, not really _looking_ sly but almost. Wilson would have met that with suspicion, but didn't feel particularly up to it right now.

Perhaps it was the smoke, but it was getting real hazy in here.

Wes offered up his own cigar, the dull green sheathing almost jarringly different from Maxwell's more dark purple and red veined cigars, and Wilson, being a gentleman, didn't refuse it.

He still didn't like mandrake all that much, but the smoke was much softer, a foggy cloud of white as he blew it out of his mouth, that sweetness not as overpowering in flavor and more in scent.

“Still not a fan. Sorry Wes.” 

The other man gave him a small smile, flapping his hands and signing a bit, not taking any offense.

“It's an acquired taste, one that I always assumed you'd like.” Maxwell had pipped up with his own opinion, and Wilson heaved a sigh, handing Wes's cigar back and leaning back, against the old man's side.

He could feel him stiffen up, hands hesitating from his work, before relaxing and letting Wilson stay where he had put himself.

“I don't like mandrakes all that much.” Wes raised up his hand, made a motion that had his fingers draw a frown over his face before flashing his free hand about in words. “I don't like dark flowers either, since you wanted to know. I'm not much of a smoker.”

Wes considered, then just shrugged at that. 

And then he sidled up a bit closer, leaned against him and wrapped his arms about Wilson, that small, usual smile set on his face as he buried his nose into Wilsons hair.

Wilson let him, closing his eyes a moment because sometimes being the one hugged first was sort of nice.

Leaning back against a seated Maxwell made sure that Wes was pressed up to the older mans back, and it took half a moment to realize Wes only had one hand around him in a hug. The other one must have crept around Maxwell, Wilson thought, and sure enough the older man stiffened up and made a distracted huff of sound before relaxing again.

The effects of the mandrake smoke was going to get to him, and probably quicker than the dark flowers. The stuff was fast acting enough, in a solid, edible form, and it was probably taking its toll on Wes at this point.

Wilson glanced around a moment when he felt Maxwell straighten his back, catching sight of Wes having offered up his mandrake cigar to the old man, but the position eased back and he could feel Maxwell sigh.

“Sleep is the last thing I want to do right now.”

“It should be the first, actually.” Wilson shifted his feet, leaned back a bit more, and he had raised his hands to get a firm grip on Wes's sweater sleeves, careful with his dull claws, letting his eyes close. “You'll heal faster if you take it easy.”

An answering hum, and there was a slight shifting as Maxwell exchanged his original cigar for Wes's. 

The lanky man, practically draped over Wilson and Maxwell, seemed to favor this position and stayed that way, just raising his head a moment to lay against Maxwell's shoulder instead. The older man huffed out another sigh, but didn't move as much, seemed content to let the two just lean heavy against him.

It took a few minutes, lost in the smoky silence, for Wilson to heave his own sigh and tug at Wes's arm.

“Not this tent, okay? Too much smoke.”

It took a bit more to actually get Wes from dozing off, and by the time Wilson untangled himself and saw to it that Wes was standing and looking rather unhappily tired at him Maxwell seemed to have actually fallen asleep upon his desk. 

There was a moderately silent, tired debate between them, Wilson not entirely wanting to wake the older man up, before it became anonymously decided that they were both way too tiredly under the effects of mandrake to be entirely rational about this.

So instead, between the two of them, Wilson doing more of the lifting and Wes more support, it was an awkward shuffling of dragging the older man from his desk, out the tent, and into another, less smoke filled one.

The fire, thankfully was still lit enough to keep the dark back, though night was progressing as steady as usual and Wilson was able to process that for a moment.

And then Wes snapped his fingers and signed at him until he was able to get Wilsons attention enough to head to bed, and once he got to his tents doorway Wes pulled him in.

Another hug, which was a Wes thing, and Wilson actually couldn't help the light laugh that escaped him, and everything was entirely too tiring and funny all of a sudden.

When was the last time he had ever felt so damnably exhausted anyway?

But Wes had him entrapped in his arms, and the man was warm and smelled of mandrake smoke and faint paints and flowers and sun, and Wilson was a bit too out of it to make any argument anyway.

Wes seemed to have decided to take control of the situation, and finding Maxwell already under the covers and snoring as softly as he was became good enough for Wilson to decide that, maybe, sleep was a good idea?

It was dark and cozy and Wilson was going to curse his lack of foresight when it came to mandrake use in the morning but right now, Wes tucking himself beside him on one side and Maxwell curling against him, pressing his face to Wilson's chest and muttering incomprehensible sleep talk before quieting, it was probably the most relaxed and warm Wilson could dare say he's felt in a good bit.

It helped, he tiredly, lazily decided, to have limbs hug around him and body presence pressed against him just so. Closing his eyes to it and reciprocating by curling his hands and holding against someone seemed like a perfectly acceptable decision, and with that Wilson drifted off to sleep.

***

It took a moment, to decide sitting up was something he even wanted to do, but Wilson screwed up his eyes and slowly sat up, attempting to rub the sleep away.

A heavy breath left him, blinking blurrily and trying to organize the mess of buzzing drowsiness and the fact it was so warm in his foggy head, and Wilson had to take a moment to rest his head in his hands and let it figure itself out for him.

He could hear the other two, their quiet breathes, and Wes had his legs tangled with his, a hand stretched over his lap and still somehow miraculously painted face relaxed and content in sleep. Wilson looked to his other side and watched Maxwell as he breathed deep, curled up against him as best as the older man could with his long limbs, and his hands were brushed up close to him, almost tangled in his clothing, head ducked to where Wilsons shoulder had been while laying down, and with that Wilson heaved a heavier sigh.

The mandrakes effects seemed to be still in effect, though it was early morning. A few hours later and it should be gone. Maxwell had been fairly right about something; the stuff had been more potent this time.

With another exhale, eyes burning with induced exhaustion, Wilson made his decision and laid back down, feeling the other two react the slightest bit and curl against him again.

Wilson could waste a few hours of early sunrise for this. He's done it before, and he's pretty sure he's all for it either way, so there was no competition. 

And anyway, it wasn't everyday when he got hugged by _two_ people, at the same time. Or that he got to hug them back without issue.

It was a pretty nice thing, whatever this was, Wilson thought drowsily to himself. A few hours wouldn't hurt anyone.

So he let himself drift off again, and it really was a nice thing, hearing two sets of soft breathing along with his, it really was.


End file.
